


No Space Between

by ineswrites



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bottom Jack Rollins, Consensual Sex, Homophobic Slurs, Internalized Homophobia, Jack Rollins is Anatoli Knyazev, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-07
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2019-01-30 17:10:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12657846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineswrites/pseuds/ineswrites
Summary: Brock’s eyes flick to the guy sitting at the bar as he wonders who the hell is mad enough to buy his ugly face a drink.





	No Space Between

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for Things Jack Said, it not only grew too long, I also hope to continue it in the future.
> 
> Would you believe this is the first time I wrote a consensual sexual intercourse.
> 
>  
> 
> [Translation into Chinese available.](http://rhiannon1118.lofter.com/post/1f01f076_12373fd1)

Brock’s made a habit of treating himself after a job well done. With every inch closer to reaching his goal, he has less and less time left on this plane. He might as well enjoy a couple of tequila shots, especially that it’s the only thing he’s looking forward to these days.

He enters a small dive bar on the outskirts of Las Vegas before he even drops off the package. He has time, and it’s unlikely people he stole from will find him here. It’s just a couple of drinks, anyway; it won’t take him longer than an hour.

He pulls the hood further over his face, especially the mess that’s left of the left side of it, and tilts his head to spare the bartender the view when he names his poison. It’s whisky night tonight. The young pretty blonde pours Jack Daniel’s over three ice cubes. He pays her and retreats to the far end of the dive. He takes a seat at the small table hidden in the shadows and takes a sip, the alcohol burning his throat pleasantly.

He leans back and sips unhurriedly, watching the patrons. Underage girls in skirts too short and tops cut too low, unattractive dudes in plaid shirts and with too much hair gel, and resigned drunks who just want to get wasted in peace. Brock feels at ease here. He thinks back to better days, when STRIKE would go out to places exactly like this one—maybe a little less dingy, a little less stuffy, with beer slightly more expensive—and talk and laugh loudly, or sit silently if they just lost someone. They’d always take the biggest table in the center of the room, drawing attention to themselves, but they didn’t mind. Often they’d pick something up that way.

Brock remains alone in the shadows these days, but it’s still not too far off. Sometimes he pretends he’s with someone, Collins, or Bourne, or Westfahl even. He doesn’t _talk_ to them, he hasn’t gone mad, but it makes him feel less lonely.

A filled glass lands on the table before him, bringing him back to reality. He looks up, his head tilted to the side before he even thinks about it. The bartender stands before him, smiling shyly, not quite looking at him.

“I didn’t order that.” He jerks his head at the glass, vodka on ice by the look of it.

“It’s from the handsome gentleman at the bar.” Her voice is soft, and she offers a forced smile as her eyes glance at him wide and scared. She’s practically pleading him not to make a scene.

What’s she doing, working in a place like this?

Brock studies her. Her long curly hair reminds him of Mercer, and his throat tightens. As if he doesn’t think of Mercer often enough. He feels a sudden urge to protect the girl and in an instant knows he will if such a need arises, no matter how not up to it his body might be. Something of it must show on his face because the bartender relaxes slightly and leaves. Brock’s eyes follow her before they flick to the guy sitting at the bar as he wonders who the hell is mad enough to buy his ugly face a drink.

His legs are crossing the room, leading him to the bar before his head catches on. He stops before the man, making sure only the right side of his face is accessible to him, feeling empty apart from the still tight throat. He downs the vodka in one go, holds back a wince, and not tearing his eyes away from the man, he sets the glass down on the bar.

“I prefer whisky,” he says, for the first time in months aware of how much his voice has changed, damaged by smoke and rubble that filled his mouth as he screamed.

“Of course.” The man’s voice is gentler than one might expect from the look of him; tall like a tree, broad like a bull, a scarred face, a lazy eye and inked skin. “Whisky on the rocks for him.” He smiles at the bartender, but she’s looking down, obviously intimidated by him. Brock cannot blame her.

“And something gay for him,” he says, slipping on the nearest stool.

The bartender glances at them, probably to make sure neither is about to start a brawl, before she nods and reaches for a shaker.

“How often do you buy strange men vodka, exactly?” Brock asks.

In his dingy clothes, smelling of sweat and gun smoke, he isn’t out of place. The same can’t be said about his companion, with his hair carefully slicked back, his white button-up and dark gray suit looking like they’re worth more than the package waiting to be delivered in Brock’s trunk. When Brock leans in a little closer, he’s surprised by the smell of a rich cologne rather than cigarettes and peppermint gum he’s grown used to. The patrons are eyeing him, and yet, he looks like he’s right where he wants to be.

“I don’t. But I saw you and decided to make an exception.” He has a slight accent; must be Russian.

“I bet you say that to all the guys.”

The bartender places their drinks before them, but neither reacts, unable to tear their eyes away from the other. Brock feels like he’s dreaming; it’s hard to believe this is really happening. At the same time, a part of him has always known this would happen eventually, that somehow, somewhere, they’d be reunited.

“What do they call ya?” he asks, reaching blindly for his whisky.

“Anatoli.”

He snorts, because, seriously, why would he choose a name like that?

“What do _you_ go by, Freddie?” _Anatoli_ ’s voice lacks heat, but Brock tenses either way.

“Krueger, because of my face?”

“Mercury, because you’re gay.”

And just like that, the tension evaporates. The air between them becomes even lighter when _Anatoli_ finally looks at his drink, a rainbow cocktail in a tall glass with an umbrella on top, and makes a face. Brock is surprised by the rumble in his chest. How long has it been since he felt genuine amusement?

The bubbling laughter dies out as soon as the thought crosses his mind, and he’s back to watching _Anatoli_ , not focusing on anything in particular. He looks good, better than he ever has as Jack Rollins. His hair is slightly longer now, and Brock yearns to touch it, brush his fingers through it until the pomade can no longer hold it back. He wants to take off that expensive jacket, unbutton the shirt and reveal what’s underneath. He wants to see what’s changed and what’s stayed the same.

 _Anatoli_ ’s eyes are back on him and he remembers that _he_ doesn’t look good, that he looks worse. He takes another long sip, his hand tightening around the glass, and pulls the hood, even though it’s already covering his face as much as possible. Suddenly, he can’t stand looking at _Anatoli_ and his eyes fix on the neon bottle shelf instead.

It was a year ago when they saw each other the last time, in the Trisk, Jack leaving to aid Pierce, Brock going to launch the ships. A year of useless existence, spent being unconscious, high, or hollow. Brock knew Jack survived, because despite one of the ships colliding with the Trisk (and Brock’s face), the Council Room remained untouched. But he was laying low, and though at first Brock tried to find him, he soon realized it might be impossible six months after the event. It’s a miracle they ran into each other in a fucking dive bar in Las Vegas. A miracle that, suddenly, Brock wishes didn’t happen.

“What is a man like you doing in a place like this?” Jack’s voice interrupts his inner pity party.

“Could asked you the same question,” Brock says, still not looking at him. “Ya ain’t dressed for the place.”

“I’m drawn to places like this one.” Even Jack’s pattern of speech is a little different. He plays the part of a foreigner well. “They remind me of old times.”

Brock nods. “I’m unwinding after work.”

“What do you do?”

“Stuff. Here and there.”

“You travel a lot?”

Brock nods again.

“Sounds to me like we don’t have much time then. My place or yours?”

He makes a mistake of looking at Jack, his green eyes staring back at him with intensity.

He can’t say no.

“Yours.”

He doesn’t have a _place_ , he was gonna have a glass of whisky, up to three, and go about his merry way. For some reason, he doesn’t say so.

He downs his glass and pays the bartender for _Anatoli_ ’s drink that is only a dollar more than his own. He leaves her a generous tip. _Anatoli_ also finishes his drink and they leave, much to the bartender’s relief.

The walk to the hotel is short. Brock barely enters the room when he’s shoved up against the wall. _Anatoli_ crowds him with his body, pins both his wrists on either side of his head. The intoxicating smell of his cologne surrounds Brock, and his eyes are half-lidded when he looks up, the alcohol he drank catching up with him. _Anatoli_ laces their fingers together and looks at Brock’s left hand, at the ring squeezed onto his finger, and smiles. Brock automatically looks at _Anatoli_ ’s other hand and sees a matching ring there. His heart leaps.

“I thought it was stolen,” he croaks out. “I found your dog tags on my nightstand but no ring. I thought a nurse stole it.”

His face flushes as his eyes well up and his body trembles at the memory. He threw a tantrum in the hospital, assaulting nurses and doctors, demanding to give the ring back. He had figured Jack was dead—because what was he supposed to think, seeing his dog tags on his nightstand—and that ring meant the world to him.

“I had to see you before I left.” _Anatoli_ drops the accent, and just like that, he’s Jack again. “It was stupid as fuck, I could get caught, but I didn’t know if you’d pull through.”

“So _you_ left the dog tags.”

“I did.”

He leans in and, finally, they kiss. It's rushed and messy and noisy; their teeth clank and their noses bump until Jack growls and grabs a handful of Brock’s hair through his hood to hold his head in place. Brock’s skin turns hot and sweaty, the scar tissue’s tight, and he can’t decide if it’s more pleasant or painful. It’s hard to think with his senses overwhelmed with Jack, from the short breathy sounds he makes, through the taste of vodka and juice lingering on his lips, to the burning feel of his touch on Brock’s sensitive skin, almost like he’s on fire again, only in a good way.

He’s short of breath when Jack pulls away, his lungs unable to accommodate as much air as they used to. He presses his face to Jack’s neck for a moment, breathing in his scent, before he mouths at his throat and licks along the tattoo there. His fingers are clumsy as he unbuttons Jack’s shirt and pulls it off his shoulders along with the jacket, revealing more tattoos on his sides, just like he expected. He trails his fingers along them. The nerve endings in his fingertips are fucked up, and Jack’s skin feels different because of it, but he can recall how smooth it is, and he can still sense hard muscles underneath and the body heat radiating off him. Brock’s hands reach Jack’s pants but don’t stop there, feeling up his hipbones through the thick fabric before pressing on the bulge in his crotch. Jack takes in a shaky breath while Brock lets one out, the fucked up side of his face pressing further into Jack’s neck. The realization it’s been a year hits him hard.

“You wanna do this with your hood up?” Jack’s voice is slightly taunting, but it’s also serious, and Brock knows Jack won’t say a word if he decides that, yes, he’s gonna fuck with his hood up.

The thing is, he doesn’t want to. He’s already too hot in the hoodie, his sweaty skin itching. He pulls away and takes both the hoodie and the t-shirt beneath off, his head turned so he’s facing Jack with only the right side of it. His arms don’t look much better, but his chest remained mostly untouched, the red burn marks scattered only here and there, where the boiling oil from the Helicarrier soaked through his STRIKE t-shirt.

“But the light stays off,” he says, his voice awfully tight.

Jack doesn’t argue. They’ve never been fans of the lights, rather enjoying the comfort of darkness. The room isn’t entirely dark, anyway, with the city lights seeping in through the windows, the neon signs tinting everything red and purple.

Jack catches the dog tags hanging from Brock’s neck and his eyes widen as he reads his own name. He looks up.

“You kept those?”

Brock shrugs. He knows it’s not that he kept the tags that shocks Jack, it’s that he’s wearing them, but he doesn’t have an answer to either. He’s never thought about himself as a sap, but he is sentimental, just a little.

“You want them back?”

Jack shakes his head. “Can’t be caught with them. Where are yours?”

Brock shrugs again. He left them at the hospital. Took the ring hanging along on the ball chain, squeezed it onto his scarred finger, not caring how much it hurt, and discarded the rest. He could forsake his identity, but not his marriage.

Jack’s mouth is on his again and he’s pushed further into the room; his legs hit the bed, and he lets himself fall onto it. He hears Jack take off his pants, so he does the same, and positions himself on his hands and knees, his head tipped low so it stays hidden from Jack’s view. The mattress dips under Jack’s weight as he settles behind Brock. His hands run along the curve of Brock’s ass before he reaches to the nightstand drawer. Brock looks up at an unexpected rustling sound and tenses at the sight of a condom.

“I ain’t a hooker,” he snarls, heat rising in his face.

“I am,” Jack says calmly.

“What, you got yourself an STD?”

“I don’t know, might have.”

Brock fists the cool sheets. Jack’s hands aren’t on him anymore. He senses the tension, but doesn’t explain himself.

Typical Jack.

Brock flexes his back, forces himself to relax at least a little. “You bend over for rich fags? That how you got all your money?”

“No,” Jack almost growls. “They bend over for me.” The fake Russian accent sneaks in for some reason, and it’s easier on Brock’s ears, like it’s not Jack saying it.

“Who fucks you then?”

“No one fucks me.”

“Wrong.”

He twists around and tackles Jack onto his back with all the force he can muster; enough for the air to whoosh out of Jack’s lungs. He doesn’t try to get up, but Brock keeps him pinned with one hand on his chest, anyway, taking the condom and lube from him with the other.

“ _I_ fuck you.”

He pours the lube on his fingers carelessly, not even looking if it’s enough, too busy studying Jack’s face that shows no emotion until he slips two fingers inside. Jack flinches with a frown, a tell it’s really been a while for him, and Brock lets himself calm down, though the sole fact Jack has condoms in his hotel room is bitter to swallow. He presses his other hand against Jack’s stomach, whispering for him to relax, and goes easier on him for the rest of the preparation. 

He looks lower, at the tattoos adorning Jack’s sides. He’s not surprised Jack got inked; they talked about it, what they’d get if they were allowed, and Jack was much more into the idea than Brock. He said he wanted a Capricorn, which was Brock’s zodiac sign. That was the most gay thing Brock has ever heard him utter.

“All that ink telling a fake story,” he says. “You got anything to remember me by?”

Jack raises his head from where it’s almost hanging off the bed. “As a matter of fact… I do.”

For a moment, Brock is really worried it’s a fucking Capricorn.

Jack points to a small tattoo over his left hip bone and Brock has to lean in to see better in the darkened room. All the anger he’s still felt seeps out of him at the sight of black crossbones forever saved on Jack’s skin.

“You like it?”

“I like you,” Brock whispers.

Jack grins. “Gay.”

“You’re about to come on my cock, so who’s gay here?”

“Am I? Because you’re really taking your time there, you sure you’re up for it, Freddie?”

Brock narrows his eyes at him as he swiftly withdraws his fingers. “Well, open your legs for me, like a good whore you are.”

Jack obeys without further comments, resting his head on the edge of the bed again. Brock’s mouth goes dry at the sight of him open and ready for him; throughout their relationship, Jack’s been usually the one topping. He puts the condom on and lubes himself up blindly. He braces himself with one hand beside Jack’s shoulder, guiding himself into Jack’s entrance with the other. Despite his bravado, Jack tenses all over when Brock’s cock sinks inside.

“What’s the matter, whore? You’ve been begging me for this not a minute ago.”

But he stills, letting Jack get used to the stretch in his own time. Jack opens his eyes and looks up at him. They’re so close Brock can feel Jack’s hot breath on his neck—

So close Jack has a perfect view of the cockblocking sight that is Brock’s face. The city lights are enough to bring out his every blemish, every warped scar, every bump, every flake of dead skin.

Brock’s flesh may stay heated, but his blood runs cold, making him shiver. He doesn’t know how he managed to forget about his state for a second, but now he’s painfully aware of it. He snaps his head to the side, but the damage is already done. Jack saw everything there was to see. Brock makes to push away, but Jack’s hands grab his sides, pulling him back down, their sweaty chests sliding together.

“Don’t you dare now.”

He jerks his hips, drawing a gasp out of Brock as his cock slips further in. He tries to wrangle himself out of Jack’s embrace, but it’s a half-hearted attempt. Jack’s fucking himself on his cock, though the tension in his muscles reveals he’s nowhere near ready for it. His eyes pierce Brock’s face with determination, like he has something to prove.

“Remember Surat? You ended up bruised all over and you didn’t want me to look at you. Remember what I said?”

Brock clenches Jack’s hip to force him to stop, because not only is he gonna hurt himself, it’s hard for Brock to gather his thoughts with jolts of pleasure wrecking his body.

“You said…” There’s a slight tremble to his voice, and he swallows. “You said it was physically impossible for me to not be beautiful.”

He feels silly now when he thinks back to that day. A black eye and burned off eyebrows are nothing compared to having half of your face melted.

“And I was just proven right,” Jack says.

He brings his hand to Brock’s face and cups it, his fingers trailing along the uneven skin. Brock’s breath turns shaky.

“You really have no idea how beautiful you are,” Jack whispers.

“You lost your other eye, too?” Brock mutters.

He’s far from beautiful, it’s the truth he sees written all over other people’s faces when they cringe or look at him with pity. But when he gathers courage to meet Jack’s gaze, he doesn’t see pity nor disgust, but the same devotion that’s been there the first time Brock kissed him and told him he wanted him. Warmth bursts inside his chest and for the first time in a year he feels beautiful, because he _is_ beautiful in Jack’s eyes, and his opinion is the only one Brock cares about.

“You okay to go?”

“Yeah,” Jack breathes.

Brock adjusts their position; he remembers how to make Jack squirm and will use that knowledge mercilessly. The snap of his hips makes them both moan; Jack’s hold around him tightens, his hips rock back, begging for more, and Brock delivers. His thoughts become less complex and coherent, eventually reducing to _more_ and _Jack_ as he’s soaking the feeling of another hot body all around him and drinking every delightful sound Jack makes.

Jack moans something in Russian and Brock kisses a spot beneath his ear, tasting salty skin.

“Jack… Come back to me.”

Jack’s hips jerk and his breath hitches.

“Jack,” Brock repeats.

He closes his eyes and they’re not in a hotel room anymore. He thinks back to their home, clean but cluttered with books and training equipment, smelling of cigarettes because he couldn’t for the life of him force Jack to smoke outside. The bedroom was always too warm, their bed big but squeaky. Jack laughed it didn’t matter because Brock moaned louder, anyway. When he opens his eyes again, sees Jack’s inked skin painted purple with neon lights, he realizes he doesn’t miss that place at all. The apartment was just this – an apartment, and home is right here, in Jack’s arms.

Jack’s nails dig into Brock’s skin and he breathes his name in both a warning and a plea. Brock works his hand between them to wrap it around Jack’s neglected cock, hot and heavy and wet with precome. Jack’s moves become erratic as he fucks into Brock’s fist and onto Brock’s cock. He hisses something in Russian again. Brock recognizes this one as a swear word.

“Stay with me, Jackie,” he says to remind Jack who he’s with. Who he is.

Jack’s body shakes, his cock pulsing in Brock’s hand as streaks of come paint his chest. Brock bucks his hips when Jack’s muscles clench around him and soon, he’s coming, too. His arms can no longer support him and he collapses, his head swimming.

He’s not sure how much time has passed when Jack breaks the cozy silence between them.

“I stayed, did you?”

Jack’s fingers play with Brock’s hair as reality slowly flows back to him. He has a package to deliver, a check to collect. Existence to lead. People to kill. One person in particular.

He rolls off Jack and takes off the condom. He locates the door to the bathroom and gets up; his legs shake ever so slightly, but he ignores it. He dumps the condom into the trashcan and cleans the remains of Jack’s semen off his skin.

When he exits the bathroom, Jack’s propped up on the pillows, naked and on display.

“I live in Gotham,” he says, watching the cigarette between his fingers rather than Brock getting dressed. “I work for Lex Luthor. LexCorp? Big ugly building. Can’t miss it.”

LexCorp? Fuck, fuck, fuck. Brock doesn’t let his surprise show as he methodically pulls his clothes on. Jack’s rich cologne is now all over him.

“Brock.”

Brock looks up from where he’s zipping up his jeans. Jack watches him with his eyebrow raised.

The package in Brock’s trunk is the property of LexCorp. Well, it was, until Brock stole it. Does Jack know? Shit, shit, shit.

Jack doesn’t look like he knows though, and Brock relaxes. Even if, what does it matter? Jack would betray _Hydra_ for him, what’s LexCorp?

“I’m on a job, but I’m back in Gotham in three days. Find me,” Jack says.

“Can’t. Busy.” Brock puts his hood up, out of habit rather than a need to hide.

“Any other day, then?”

He again wishes they didn’t run into each other tonight. That Jack didn’t notice him, didn’t buy him a drink. He built a life for himself. A good life, by the looks of it. Brock doesn’t want to bring him into the mess of his existence.

The silence prolongs and Jack drops his gaze, lights the cigarette. A year has passed, he looks like a different person now, but Brock feels like they parted only yesterday, with how easily he’s able to read him. He sighs in defeat.

“Your phone.”

Jack jerks his head at the nightstand. Brock pulls out an iPhone from the drawer and saves a contact.

“Ten days, I’m not doing anything.” Probably napping in his car in some forest. “Text me a time and a place.”

Jack does the math and a corner of his mouth raises. “You sonofabitch.”

The air is cold on Brock’s still warmed up skin as he walks the streets towards the parking lot where he left his car. He finds the old Toyota plundered, tires slashed. The package’s nowhere to be seen. He punches the door with an angry shout. He rests his forehead against the hood and breathes deeply, trying to figure out what the hell he’s supposed to do now, when he feels a vibration in his pocket. He takes out his phone and reads a text from a foreign number.

_You can take my bike._

Brock looks up. There in fact is a Harley-Davidson parked next to his car.

 _I’ll get you for this,_ he types back. He saves the contact as The Only One I Fuck, to match the name under which he saved his number on Jack’s phone—The Only One Who Fucks You.

 _Counting on it_ , comes the response.


End file.
